The Four Times Prussia Died, and the One Time He Didn't Come Back
by Lumeilleur
Summary: The returns of Prussia over history, and the death of Prussia today.


Gilbert was drowning. The coolness of riverwater made his open wounds sting, but there was nothing he could do with his legs tied to a heavy weight and his hands bound tightly behind him. All he could hear was the slow quiver of underwater motion. His breath was escaping quickly in flurries of tiny bubbles. He sank and sank any sank, until he could no longer see the sky.

Oh, he thought anxiously, I'm going to die. Oh god, oh god, I'm still so young!

But he simply sank until he could no longer see his feet, sank until he could no longer think clearly, sank until a loud, continuous buzz muffled all the other noises he could hear. He sank, until he stopped.

When he saw black and then woke and saw black and then woke again, he realized–fortunately– he would not be dying today.

After a few long hours, he reached the riverbank, blue lipped and red in the face.

The light and the colours made him throw up when he attempted to stand, but he still limped his way back into the forest, confused by the fact that _he was still alive_.

* * *

He opened his eyes and found himself gracelessly sprawled across the silent battlefield.

There were three arrows and two spears lodged through his body, yet he still stubbornly refused to leave this stupid world behind.

He patted his little leather pouch at his abdomen to find it empty. Damn looters.

Slowly, Prussia sat up and surveyed the empty plains. No one alive as far as the eye can see. Friend or foe, they were all gone.

"I shouldn't have expected anything else," he said to the man next to him. The corpse did not respond, of course.

He tried to stand, but the spearheads poked at his organs uncomfortably. Gritting his teeth in pain, he pulled them out one by one. He carelessly tossed the spears away, but decided to keep the arrows embedded in his torso for show. They didn't hurt as much.

The soldiers had long returned to camp a mile away. What a terribly long walk he would have to make.

Wincing at every step he took, he began his trek back to his camp.

The sight of his officers screaming in terror was worth the pain.

* * *

He shot back into consciousness when a fellow soldier stepped on his bleeding body, having mistakenly assumed he was already dead.

"Piss off!" Prussia shouted underneath the muddy black boots. The boy screeched and practically leapt off of him.

He crawled over to sit himself up against the trench. He pulled out an unlit cigarette from his pocket and bit onto it. Then, he gently tugged the shrapnel out of his body.

Don't scream, don't scream, don't scream.

Despite all the effort, he could not contain a muffled cry when he got a sizeable scrap out oh his forearm.

Blinking frantically so he wouldn't cry, he pulled out a pretty leather notebook. He was desperately trying to distract himself.

Ignoring the red ribbon that bookmarked a blank page, he opened the notebook and began to scan its content.

"Scorching day…"

"...practically a massacre…"

"...bombs…"

"...hell, on earth."

He flipped through the pages frantically, trying to find something happy. Where did the happy things go?

A little photograph slipped from the thin leafs. He picked it up to look at it, and breathed sharply.

It was an old photograph– a _very_ old photograph, featuring a smiling blond covered in medals fro head to toe.

Prussia searched through his pockets and pulled out a tiny matchbox. He struck a match, brought it close to the image, and…

Threw the match away. He would never, ever, ever harm anything of his brother's.

"What are you doing?" A passing soldier asked suspiciously.

"Smoking," Prussia lied as he tucked the photo in his breast pocket.

He didn't look at it again for the remaining 3 months he served.

They took it away from him.

He wished he had.

* * *

 _Pru..sia..a…!_

East woke to see Russia gently dabbing at the large, bleeding gash that spanned the length of his torso.

"Oh no," Russia said softly to himself, "I'm very sorry. How did you get this, anyway?"

"Rather not say," East replied hoarsely. Russia glanced up sharply.

"You're awake," he said simply, as if he was expecting this, "this is wonderful.

"I hope you're hungry, you need the food," he continued, putting away the bloody rag to reach for a tray. On it was a plain spoon and, to East's delight, a humble bowl of meat stew.

He gulped it down wolfishly.

Russia stood up and patted his head affectionately. "Eat well and rest," he said, "you should be well enough to help out tomorrow, I think."

East nodded as he put down the bowl to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Get better," Russia said, making it sound more like a command than a wish.

To his puzzlement, the wound was still as fresh and bloody as it was yesterday.

"This is not good," Russia said as he shook his head, "not good at all." He looked at Prussia with a childlike sadness.

"Don't breathe a word," East pleaded.

From all the years he spent with him, East decided that Russia's one redeeming quality would be his ability to keep a secret.

* * *

"What happened?" Germany demanded as he tucked the blanket around Gilbert's sides, "You were standing there, and then you just–" he waved his arms around as he struggled to find a word, "Collapsed. Just like that!"

Gilbert winced when his hand brushed against a bruised rib. It had been a week since he stumbled and fell into an iron gate.

"Well?" Germany asked, looking at him expectantly.

"I don't know," he said lamely.

"What do you mean, "you don't know"? How could you not know? It's _your_ body!"

"I just don't fucking know, okay? Let the wounded have their rest, alright?"

"What wounds?" came the frantic question.

Shit, Gilbert thought. He fucked up, royally.

"The deep cut in my heart, because my very own little brother doesn't trust me at all." His melodrama always manages to cover everything up. He faked a shit-eating grin, "How could you, West? I thought you loved me?"

Germany rolled his eyes in relief and irritation. He stood up and brushed nonexistent from his trousers. "I'll put the leftovers in the fridge. You can reheat it when you're well," he said before he strode out of the room.

Gilbert closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He had a feeling it would take more than one night to get better.

* * *

He was lying on his bed feeling terribly sorry for himself.

He was sick of it all.

"Fuck it," he grumbled as he felt for his heartbeat underneath his shirt. There it was, beating away as a heart of any ordinary person should.

The problem is, he isn't any ordinary person.

And that was the moment he decided to do it.

Perhaps he should leave something behind first.

He grasped blindly on his nightstand before he managed to grab his phone.

It was a sleek model, one America got for him when his birthday came rolling around. He gave it a week too early, but it was a nice phone, so he said nothing.

He scrolled through the contacts and randomly clicked a name.

Eliza's voicemail.

Click.

He didn't even know he had China's number.

Click.

"Gilbert," Germany replied, "what is it? Don't tell me it's something stupid." Oh no, Gilbert thought as he swallowed, why him, of all his contacts?

"Hey, West. Kinda want to make it clear first that it isn't your fault." Here, he paused. "Actually, you know what? It is kind of your fault. I blame literally everyone. Tell them that, okay?"

"What are your talking about? What did you do this time?"

"Honestly, I blame you a lot. But I definitely think it's mostly because of me. So it's okay. Also, Toni never returned my headphones. Tell him to go fuck himself, yeah?"

"If you want to tell Spain something, do it yourself. I'm not—"

"Prissy-pants promised me brioche, but I never got it. So tell him to go fuck himself too." He checked himself. He was getting off track.

"Did you just ca—"

"The official memoirs are in the drawer, and you know where the fuck my journals are. Will is on the bedside table. And—" He inhaled deeply.

"What on earth—"

"And also, I love you a lot. Okay? Be good, West."

He ended the call before Ludwig could reply.

Gilbert dropped the phone on the bed and made his way to the kitchen. On the pristine kitchen-counter lay a gleaming, thin knife. He reached for it, but he changed his mind last minute. Instead, he made his way back to his room and reached under his bed. Out came an old sword in an old scabbard. He drew it and admired it in the bright morning light. It would do.

He surveyed his room for a moment. It was rather plain, seeing as he didn't bother to decorate in much when he moved in. It was as if a part of him knew that this would be temporary all along.

Gilbert's hand paused over the door knob. Was he really going to carry this out?

 _He had been putting this off for too long._

He walked resolutely to the bathroom and lowered himself into the bathtub.

He swiftly pushed his sword between his ribs, where it lodged itself perfectly in the heart.

And finally, _finally_ , he didn't come back.


End file.
